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Then my father saw me. Liam got up — to keep him from me, I think. What chance did he think he had against such hate? My father threw him down again.
By Mary Ann McGuiganJanuary 1991Carol had on a pink blouse. Her bra straps made these small ridges in the cloth. Every time she bent to reach for another glass, a small crescent of purple poked from beneath the pink. It looked like the edge of a real whopper.
By Terry L. TomaAugust 1990Hitting your sister, watching the rice boil, jumping over the subway turnstiles
By Our ReadersOctober 1989That damned wind! It did whatever it liked. It caressed your hair, your legs, your shoulders, your breasts. I hated it, Kristin! I wanted to kill it.
By V. MyagkovAugust 1989Both of them hit me so frequently that I still flinch at sudden movements. I learned in my bones that alcoholics don’t have relationships; they take hostages.
By Lily CollettAugust 1989It was the first time events made a difference, the first time I recognized an involvement in what happened beyond the few back yards and playmates that were my universe, the first time anyone said, “You will remember this day forever,” and I believed it.
By David Brendan HopesOctober 1986Buddy has to cry out with all his force in his seven-year-old body, trying to get his father to believe that he has done nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all; and in this act of trying to convince him that he is not wrong, he is wrong, and must get punished for that.
By Lorenzo W. MilamMay 1985Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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